2 As the Birds Whistle

There is not much breeze this late spring morning where Atila is moving through the motions of preparing her bow for a quick bird hunt. She is clothed in a blend of worn cotton woven from a quiet ancient lady of the gathering and leather fastenings she crafter last summer. She owns only a small handful of clothes. It is not from the lack of skill or trading, but simply a choice to keep the quality. She pulls the bow taunt and sets out on a small trail only she knows, for she made it herself. There is plenty of rich forest surrounding the gathering and further beyond are more.

Hunting is not as exciting as one hopes it to be and patience does not always bring profit. Atila knows that well and she steps along with her ears perked. She is hunting for a pigeon to add to her small collection of meat. She had made a larger kill in the light of the last full moon and traded several pounds for spring greens and dried winter foods. There was not much she could not craft.

She kept her ears perked for the sound of her prey. She constantly listened, but to hunt she needed to listen deeper. She was listening not only to hunt, but to clear her thoughts.